Conin’s about to ruin his perfect hair, but there’s no stopping him. I hate to admit there’s apt logic to his idea. Dreadfully, I watch as he tears open the box and gets to work in the bathroom. I pace, making occasional glances at the map we bought. Fifteen or so minutes pass and Conin’s hair is already shifting into a vibrant, unnatural red.
“I made sure to get an ankle brace, too,” he says, lifting the hem of his joggers. He sways on his feet, the momentum driving him forward, a limp in his gait. My hands levitate in the space between us, ready to catch him if he falls over. Conin smiles, recognition dawning on his face.
“I’m okay.”
I’m not.
Hopefully, the brace will help him get back to normalcy. There’s no way we could go to a hospital without outingourselves. Perhaps the Angelics, or this Atlas, will have resources we can use.
The dye settles for a little while longer. Eventually, Conin escapes to the bathroom to wash off the excess color. The door shuts and the sound of cascading water spills into the room. I amnotthinking about him undressed. It wouldn’t be the first time, but these thoughts are entirely inappropriate, given everything.
Guilt for harboring these thoughts in such a difficult situation racks me. They’re normal, sure, but I shouldn’t feel this way, shouldn’t submit to these feelings after Conin’s left his life behind, injured himself in the process, and had to abandon his mom to aid me in a life that may inevitably end regardless of how hard we try to escape.
That’s what I don’t tell him. I’m not confident we’ll get out of this alive. I possess half the mind to abandon Conin at the earliest convenience, but what that would do to him . . . what that would do to me, is beyond what I want to allow myself to think about. It is, in a sense, a betrayal. Leaving him would essentially act as the biggest “fuck you,” and I can’t do that to him. I can’t do that to him. I can’t. Conin’s complicit now, whether I like it or not. Abandoning him would be like offering him to the Barclay Network, exactly what Thax did to me. I will not sink that low, no matter how terrified I am.
And if I’m being honest, I can’t survive on my own. I hate this.
“Let’s map out our way to Eureka,” Conin says while he exits the bathroom.
His bright burgundy curls are tousled. The room’s low lighting reveals a glistening, damp sheen. I gape, not sure what to think. It makes me sad, almost, as if I’m mourning something that belonged to me. Conin’s shirtless. His skin shines and I follow the thin trail of hair on his stomach that dives below his waistband. His soft belly erupts me into flames. I dart my eyes away. And Conin, to my relief, obliviously reaches for the ballcap and sunglasses. He puts them on and looks like he could pass as someone else. This could work.
“See? A whole new person,” he says, satisfied.
“Sure,” I mutter.
“I was thinking of growing out a beard, too.”
“Oh god, but it’s so patchy when you do!” I exclaim. He’s tried it before. It was a rough time.
Conin is unimpressed. “Ezra—”
“Fine, it’ll look good.”
“And I don’t need your sarcasm, thanks,” he says and slips on a new shirt. No longer able to ogle at his perfect body, I deflate on the bed.
He joins me, pulling up our gas station-bought map. He unfolds it, smoothing its creases. Conin draws his index finger across it, circling it uncertainly, before settling on a spot. Eureka isn’t that far. He estimates it should take us three to four hours from Wendover to arrive there. In the meantime, he says that we should spend another night here—get some more rest, and be masked by the shade of night, before we attempt our journey again.
I agree with him.
The night is subjectively scary. Too much can happen in the dark—too much dangerous potential. But for me, night has always felt safe and comforting. In the dark, no one can see you. In the dark, expectations are subverted. We’re less exposed. I don’t have to be self-conscious of myself, as if I’m a grave disappointment. And at night, Thax and Lukeman Gray sleep. At night, I can be myself. It’s a reset. A reminder tomorrow might be different.
When morning comes and the sun shines on our corner of the world, I must remake myself as a different person with a different alias. Conin sits against the headboard, turns on the TV. My legs drape off the bed, my body facing the maskedwindows. I breathe again. The curtains are musty. The carpet is laden with stains.
“What should my name be?” I ask. Conin’s frame rustles against the sheets. “In case it comes up . . . I should go by a different name. You should, too.”
“Our IDs say otherwise,” he deadpans.
“Yeah, but like . . . in passing. What do you think I look like?” I say and transform into the outline from before.
“Oh fuck. You look like a Brad,” Conin says.
I feel like socking him in the gut.
“Hell, no!”
“Wait . . . what about your middle name?”
Tatum. It’s not a bad idea.
